Conversations of the Baker Street Kind
by KendylGirl
Summary: A sample of the many types of exchanges between the inhabitants of 221B. Some are lighthearted, some are dark, some are sweet, and some are passionate-all part of the evolution of two boys in love.
1. Chapter 1

"For God's sake, stop yelling!"

"I'm not yelling, I'm disputing a truly despicable demonstration of flawed deduction."

"You don't have to watch that show, you know."

"Bored."

"What's so flawed about the deductions, anyway? I think Brad and Cindy get off rather well."

"Oh, please. Look at his collar and his fingernails. Look at her bracelets and tongue. They could not be more ill-suited."

"You're judging their potential together based on, what, accessories? What does that have to do with anything?

"Idiots."

"Well, she's certainly glued to him. Last week she called him her soulmate. And he seems happy enough. The audience loves them."

"More idiots."

"Care to elaborate?"

An ivory finger extends toward the screen. "His collar is loose, untucked—if she cared at all, she'd have tucked it back for him before the cameras arrived. Her jewelry hangs on her arm, and she shakes it back every two minutes; conclusion: she's not used to it, not accustomed to ornamentation, and judging by the state of her molars and the fact that she tries desperately to cover them with her tongue, all luxury, including toothpaste, is foreign to her. From the unearthly shade of his spray tan and polished pinkies, luxury is all he knows. And then there's his eyes—unaffected by the smile tattooed to his face, as is hers. Result: polar opposites. No chance."

"Who are you now, Dr. Ruth?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

"Do you mean to tell me you agreed this tripe?"

"Opposites attract—isn't that popular wisdom?"

"Popular wisdom—now there's a telling oxymoron. The population is largely deplorable. The population does not _observe_."

"And you do."

"Naturally."

Silence. He knows he has but to wait.

"Attraction, John— _real_ attraction—is born of harmony, not opposition. Each partner excels at the traits his other half does not; the experience melds, it doesn't diverge. There is a meeting in the middle or the circle never completes."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"And you'd know, of course."

"Scientifically, the conclusion is inescapable."

"I see. Well, let's test your hypothesis, then. What sort of human could possibly provide _harmony_ to Sherlock Holmes?"

A few seconds tick by. "My work provides harmony."

"That's great, but that's not what I asked."

"What exactly _did_ you ask? You're making little sense, as usual."

"I want to know what traits you think someone has to have to harmonize with someone like you."

"No such person exists."

"That's not an answer."

"Nonetheless, it is true."

"Well?"

A flurry of limbs. "Well, do _you_ know someone who is reasonably curious and moderately clever; _and_ determined, loyal, strong, trustworthy; _AND_ accepting of constant change, skilled with weapons, and undeterred by a rotting corpse? Show me that impossible mix and I'll—"

"You'll what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Why? What would you do?"

A few minutes of silence.

"Have you ever met anyone like that, Sherlock?"

The only noise is the click of buttons on the remote control.

**I live for your comments-please tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

The bathroom door rattles open. The shower crackles in the background. "Sherlock, my shampoo is empty."

"So?"

"So it was full three days ago."

"Is there a point to this information?"

"Did you use it?"

"That's fairly obvious, I suppose." The newspaper page flips. "I—ran out of mine."

"No, you didn't. I saw nearly a full bottle of it in the cupboard."

"Then use it."

"Why didn't _you_?"

Flip. Flip. "Yours smells better."

"What? What does that mean? What does it smell like?"

A shrug. "You."

Seconds pass before the door clicks closed.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm back!"

"Did you leave?"

"It's only been an hour and a half."

"If you say so."

"Traffic's a nightmare, and every cab in London seems to be avoiding our neighborhood, which is brilliant, especially given that I've not eaten since this morning."

"Did you go to—"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you get those rolls?"

"Yes."

"No, not those, the ones with the—"

"Those, too."

"And the noodles we had last time—did you remember the noodles?"

"No, I forgot."

"Oh."

"So I went back."

"You…Really?"

A carton appears from the folds of the bag. "Yes, of course, really."

Steady eyes lock. "Thank you, John."

The lock holds. "My pleasure."

Packages and silverware rustle. Glass clinks.

"Good?"

"Very." An inquisitive eye. "Is that the spicy chicken?

"Yep."

Silence.

"Want some?"

"I'd be willing to share my noodles if…"

A slow grin. "Deal."


	4. Chapter 4

"Why are you staring?"

"Huh?

"I can feel you staring at me."

"No. No, I'm not."

"You are."

"I…you…nothing."

"Is there something you'd like to ask?"

"No, not really."

"Not really means yes. What is it?"

"Forget it, Sherlock. I didn't mean to disturb your reading. On with it."

"John, I've been reading this treatise for an hour, and thus far, it is no more illuminating than Lestrade's sexting jags with his wife. Certainly less amusing. So you've disturbed nothing."

"Maybe you should put it aside for the night."

"And do what exactly?"

"Talk, perhaps?"

"We're doing that right now."

"Yes. Yes, I know, but…"

"But what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"We could test the corneal tension on those fresh eye samples. Bet they've crisped nicely."

"Well, that's what an industrial freezer tends to do. No, that's ok."

"Want to pilfer and ransom Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers? She may forgive the rent on the wall damage."

A sudden laugh; a deep wash of satisfaction.

"What did you have in mind, doctor?" There's a quiet twinkle in the tone.

A hand waves. "I don't know…stretch out on the bed maybe…get comfortable…"

Crinkled brow. "What? Why? It's barely nine. I'm not tired."

Eyes turn from the ceiling to pin their target. "Good."

A beat. An extended hand.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're up early."

A quirk of lips. "As are you. Hungry?"

"Starved."

" _Are_ you?"

"Yep. I had a busy night."

"Did you now." A statement, not a question.

"Not that I mind." Fingertips brush the back of a hand.

"It seems a doctor's work is never done."

"Thankfully."

The lips quirk again, deeper. "I made tea."

"You? _You_ made tea?"

"Yes, of course. Is that so hard to believe?"

"For a man who has, since I've known him, never purchased groceries nor washed a dish? Umm, yes, it is. And what about the biscuits? Did you buy the biscuits?"

Silence.

"Is that a no?"

"I…I may have…borrowed those from Mrs. Hudson, but she knows which market carries the—why are you smiling."

"No reason."

"Are you laughing at me, John?

"Laughing? No." Eyes rake to the floor and back. "No, not laughing."

"Oh? What then."

"Examining." A pause. "Admiring."

"And what does your expert eye deduce, Doctor?"

"Your dressing gown is rather loose."

"So?"

"So I can see your knee."

"Scandalous." Crisp and arid.

"Not really. But I also can see your navel."

"Thus?"

"You're not wearing any pants."

"Obviously."

"Interesting, that's all."

"Not really."

"It is to me." Eyes lock, dark pupils overwhelming the blue rim of iris.

"Want to see more?"

"Oh, good God, yes."


	6. Chapter 6

"You know you can't do it like that, right?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I can— _have_ done, on multiple occasions."

"'Multiple occasions'? Really?"

"Yes, I'm a multiple, or didn't you know that, Doctor?" Crisp and wry, with a sidelong glance.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." A pause. "I bet Mrs. Hudson knows, too."

An amused snort. "You can scarcely blame me, John. That was, in all fairness, entirely your doing."

A blush tints the shameless grin. "Meretricious?"

"To say the least."

A hand circles on the small of a back.

Seconds tick by to the slow swishing of a rolling boil.

"See, I told you. It's going to bubble over."

"Oh, no it isn't. Not when it is stirred consistently. The motion efficiently redistributes the heat energy throughout the mixture, melding it into liquid perfection."

"Are you _trying_ to turn me on, or…" A raised eyebrow, teasing. Sinful.

"What? No! I'm trying to _educate_ you on the superiority of my technique for—wait, _are_ you getting…turned?"

"How could I not be?" A hand snakes around a waist.

Eyes flutter closed. An involuntary lick of lips. A wavering whine fades in a furious shaking of curls. "No. No, I have to finish this. If the sauce is scalded, the whole dish is ruined."

A sigh. "Fine."

"Pass me the oregano."

"More?"

"A touch, that's all it needs."

"Is it thick enough yet?"

"Nearly."

"Let me try it."

A serving spoon is held aloft.

"Mmmm…Oh! Wow, yeah, that's brilliant! I can't believe it! God, why have you never cooked before?"

"I _have_ cooked before."

"Where did you learn this?"

"I'm a chemist. The culinary arts are not so different."

" _When_ have you cooked? I've never seen you even go _near_ the stove unless it was to dry out samples of cadaver fingers or severed tongues."

"I perfected formulas on a few dishes at university, ones requiring little pantry space and lasting a minimum of five days with adequate refrigeration."

"How'd you keep your roommate from nicking the remains?"

"I had no roommate."

"Well, your other mates _had_ to have been snarfs. Oh, lord, in med school, we practically had to put combination locks on our fridge doors! In fact, I'm pretty sure I once stabbed Stamford with a tuning fork when he tried to make off with my take-away fajitas."

"I didn't—nobody—that was not—that never happened to me."

"Oh, bugger, 'course it did. I saw guys at school eat chips off the floor of a cab, for Christ's sake. There's no way that—"

"It didn't happen." A snap.

Tension ices over broad shoulders, the pale face hidden.

"Oh."

Damn.

A throat clears. "Well, who cares about that." A breath. "Who cares about them. Why have you never cooked for _me_?"

"You never asked." So soft.

"Sherlock?"

A dial clicks, the wooden spoon thuds on the pot's edge. "This is finished."

"Sherlock?"

"We needn't worry about the dishes. Goodness knows, in the morning, Mrs. Hudson will—"

" _Sherlock_."

Finally the face turns, eyes settle together. They question and answer, in equal amounts. A hand is lifted, squeezed, held. It absorbs the warmth of the other.

Cautious fingers entwine.

"Are you hungry, John?" Low, small, the a wisp of a smile at the fringes.

"Yes." A twinkle. "Yes. Let's have dinner."

The grip tightens. "I can think of nothing I'd enjoy more."


	7. Chapter 7

"I found this in the trash bin."

"How exciting for you."

"It's a bill from my therapist."

Tented fingers do not move from their chin rest. "See, now, your powers of deduction _are_ improving. Soon you'll be figuring out the time by reading the clock and all sorts of clever things."

"Sherlock, I haven't paid this yet. Why did you throw it away?"

"Because that's what I do when something no longer serves a purpose—I toss it out."

"What are you talking about? What _purpose_? It has nothing to do with you. It belongs to _me_."

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Excuse me?"

"It's taken care of."

"What do you mean? What did you do?"

"Don't you listen? I said I took care of it."

"You paid this?"

"Yes, last week."

The paper crumples inside white, straining knuckles. "Who the hell do you think you are? What right do you have to do something like this?"

Eyes lower, breath inhaled slowly, swallowing the wit in a soft tone. "Look, John, I know that you've…struggled lately…and I—"

"You what? You felt _sorry_ for me?"

"I…no, of course not, I—"

"You decided it was up to you, then? The great Sherlock Holmes has to manage the sad idiot's life for him? Poor John with his empty brain and his empty wallet. Stupid, _ordinary_ John who can't handle his past without a shrink to keep him limping along."

Stunned silence. Rapid, ragged breaths.

"And how could the famous consulting detective ever bother with such a sot? I embarrass you, don't I? God, how could I never have _seen_ it? Who have I been kidding? All this time!"

"John…I was only trying to help—"

"I'm an embarrassment—just say it. That's it, isn't it, Sherlock? Isn't it? _Isn't it_?"

Low, grave. "I have awakened in drug dens I couldn't even locate on a map, covered in my own vomit. I do not pass judgement on others' lives."

Red, wheezing. "It's always the same, always. All my life, my _whole_ life, everyone's decided what I'm good enough to do. And what I'm not—definitely _not_. How long, then?

"How long for what?"

"How long before you'd decide that _I_ no longer serve a purpose? How long before _I'm_ tossed in a bin without so much as a thought?"

"That is ridiculous, John."

"That's me, after all—the happy little helper who cleans up the all messes, yeah? Don't worry if Dad walks out, because John will get a job to pay the mortgage. Harry goes on a binge and loses her license? No worries—John will cart her to school and back."

Windpipe closes on choked breaths. Tears start to form at the edges. "Bombs exploding around us? Who cares about retreating to find cover—Captain Watson'll patch us up. but if he can't? Done. Ship the bastard off to hospital. Hell, at least he served a _purpose_."

" _Please_ , John, please just calm down and—"

"Calm. Right. Because that's gotten me so far in life." A flap of leather, a zip. "Forget it. Forget _all_ of it."

A fading creak of wood on the stairs.

A muted slam of the front door.

Silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sometimes, especially after a fight where too much has been spoken, conversations happen without saying a word. This is part one.**

A white column of light splits the darkness. He holds his breath.

Four measured steps of stocking feet, inching across the hardwood as if crossing a frozen lake, and the edge of the mattress depresses under his weight.

He smells of cigarettes, rye whiskey, and diesel. Pall Mall, Marlboro—second hand, close proximity; Whistlepig, straight, three…no, four shots: Lock Tavern, second stool from the door. Five circles of the park, counterclockwise.

The room is stuffy. It spins, whirls of darkness held to the ground by a molten drop of lead deep in his chest. He sinks, and the bed arrests his fall. He grips the edge, digging his fingernails in. He should go. Why would he be here? He can't possibly be wanted. He wipes at his face, trying to mop up the guilt where it has settled into the folds of his skin.

The shoulders are tight, but they slump away, over the edge, elbows poised on his knees. Breathing is deep, thick, raspy. What is it? Anger? Injury? He doesn't know what to do, and he _hates_ not knowing.

He pushes his forehead into his palm. The pain pulses his temples. That's earned. _Deserved._ He replays without consent the bald expression in the pale eyes, the lava of his words scorching them. He should go.

He waits. His brain spits miles of sentences, reams of adding machine tape with questions and statements and conclusions. He cannot open his mouth.

He forces himself to turn his head, but in the pitch blackness, he can only make out the silhouette of curls against the white pillowcase. He wants to reach out, move his hand through the softness, to trace the outline of the fuzzy earlobe, pulling a rare smile from the delicate, somber mouth. He loves that smile.

His fingers twitch. Their hips are inches apart. It would be so easy to reach out, to clutch onto a belt loop like a life preserver, forcing him to stay close, to remain fixed to his side, to never leave. Not ever. But why drag him down? Why drown that wearied strength, that unfailing goodness, in the dark sewer water of _his_ life? No. Let it go. Set it free.

Please say something.

Please don't go.

I'm so sorry.

I'm so scared.

 _Forgive me._

 ****I really love your comments. Please tell me what you think so far!****


	9. Chapter 9

**Conversation without words, Part Two.**

He has been observing all night, watching in a constant vigil, unwilling to miss a moment. What if all of it ends now? In the stream of vacant nights that would lie ahead, he knows he wouldn't sleep, but he would definitely dream. Terrible images of soft snoring and the tidy fringe of hair peeking above the covers and the soft fingers that unconsciously find his in the middle of the night will torture his every waking hour. _Alone protects me?_ Idiot.

His eyes shutter open to weak, grey light filtered through the translucent curtains. Crust sticks his lashes together, and his jaw, off-center, aches in its hinges. For a treasured few moments, he has no memory, but then it floods back, clenching his heart in his hollowed chest. _God_.

He senses the acceleration of breath and the minute motions of neck and jaw. He quiets his lungs, listening.

Blurry colored squares dance in his vision. He presses an index finger into his eye socket, settling, focusing. What the..? He exhales audibly when he realizes what he sees: it's a periodic table, defiantly askew in its frame on the wall. Just like the bloody door knocker. It's such a paradox, this—the tiny deviation insisted upon by an otherwise structured mind. Utterly adorable.

His insides lurch. He goes rigid, terrified that if he moves, the form next to him will evaporate like a mirage that was never his to enjoy.

The tears push like a wave out from his core. _Enough_. He flops like a fish, twisting himself up.

Horror grips him. No. He feels the warmth rip away from him. _No!_

He rolls around to bury his face in the crux of the ivory neck, dampening the grey t-shirt in an expanding circle. His arms crush around the soft fabric, pressing to him the jut of ribs, the shoulder knob, the tight sinews of the thigh—all of it, needing it closer, closer.

Finally. His arms close like a vice, melding his other half to him. _Finally._ Long fingers card through the short silvered hair, down the length of spine and back up, massaging the tight tendons at the back of the neck. His gangly legs hitch and capture what they can, every inch greedily claimed. He swallows hard, overwhelmed, and the empty gulf of stale air that had settled into his throat dissipates. He has a sudden flash to when his mother would swaddle up his toddler form in a blanket fresh from the dryer, the instant and delicious warmth. Tangible joy.

He tilts his head back just far enough to kiss jawline and cheekbone, eyelid and ear shell, to smooth in slow circles the cheek pad with his own. He's missed this. It's only been hours, but he has achingly missed every part. He anchors his grip behind the taut waist. _Stay_. He is exhausted. Spent.

He rests his cheek on the silken scalp and allows his eyes to drift closed. Lengthening breaths take in that drowsy, comforting scent. _Home._ His mind, at last, powers down.


	10. Chapter 10

**A final arc to the saga of the unexpected fight.**

"Look, I realize what I said…it all just came out of nowhere."

"I overstepped my bounds."

"No…I mean, yes, but no. You didn't deserve all that."

The eyes claim no victory. Light from the fire dances in the dark pools.

"I mean, I get it. I know how you operate. You don't talk about problems, you solve them. You _act_. It's how you've always shown love." A smile emerges, settling more in the eyes than the mouth.

A curt nod, belied by the faint blush. The gaze abstracts, circles to the ceiling.

"It's hard for me…not to feel like a failure."

Abrupt focus. "In what version of reality are you a failure?"

"Mine."

"Absurd."

"Not really."

"Explain."

A sigh, floundering. "I don't know, I just…I've always had it, this nagging feeling…as if I'm falling short, no matter what was going on around me, no matter what people have needed, I couldn't provide it. And now I can't even pay my bills?" A thumb crooks to point at its owner. "Pathetic."

"Wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that based upon the data, your deduction is flawed."

"Oh, is it?" The mouth pulls up on one side.

"Indeed. You've failed to account for the relevant facts of the case; thus, your conclusion is inevitably incorrect."

"And I suppose you have all the facts?"

"I do."

Arms cross over the chest. "Fine. Enlighten me."

A swoop to the edge of the chair cushion. "You've been confronted by unreliable adults in your youth, a sibling whose vices overcame her, and a platoon of men in a war zone. What do all of these situations have in common? Answer: They are _impossible_ situations, circumstances that defy solution, puzzles that cannot be solved. How are they managed? They require a hero. They require a person who is willing to fight, who helps people survive, who allows others to endure no matter the cost to himself." The head tilts, the voice looses its razor. "You step up when others cower. That act alone defines success; ergo, failure is not possible."

Eyebrows knit together, mouth slightly agape. "I…I don't know…that's…I mean, I'm not—"

The hand waves dismissively. "Oh, please. The pattern is clear, and you continue it to this very moment."

The furrow deepens. "What? What are you talking about?"

The pale face turns fully to him, expression bland for allocution. "You're here. You've taken up with a person whom most consider a grumpy, rude, obnoxious asshole, and you've managed to redeem him, to find something worthwhile in him to love." Quieter now, but still unflinching. "And you've become indispensable and completely _necessary_ to him in every conceivable way, a person who once considered himself aloof to all and desirous of none. That is a feat that ranks fairly high on the grand scale of impossible undertakings, does it not?"

A stare, and at length, a head shakes absently, "No, Sherlock, that's not…I can't let you…what I mean is, I owe you so much…I owe _you_."

"For what?"

"Before this, before us, I was lost. I was… _invisible_ in my own life."

"I do not accept that. I know what invisible is. I grew up as the rubbish little brother of Mycroft Holmes, a man who sees our entire species as "goldfish" in comparison to himself and never has ceased, not once, to remind me that I am the least golden among them. I have _been_ invisible."

Eyebrows raise. A soft smile, a wince. "I guess we have that in common, then."

Curls toss thoughtfully. "Nope." A finger jabs at him. "You, doctor, could not be invisible, ever."

Doubt, a wry tilting of the head. "Yeah? What's your proof for _that_? Plaid stands out in a crowd?"

Eye roll. "Simple. Obvious." Elbows on knees, shoulders squared to the fire, the neck twists. "Because most of the time, John, you're all I _can_ see."

The gaze holds through the flickers and crackles of the nearby blaze.

**Author note: How's it going so far? PLEASE tell me what you think!**


	11. Chapter 11

"Yes."

"No."

" _Yes_ , Sherlock."

"No. Forget it. I am swamped with work. I can't possibly spare the time."

"You haven't done anything for three days but chew on toothpicks."

"It's an experiment!"

"Is it part of the experiment to leave them all over the bathroom sink?"

Hands fly to hips. "As a matter of fact, it is. That room has the greatest humidity levels."

"And is it 'humid' under my bed pillow?"

Cursory examination of cuticles, knuckles, palm. "Ah. Well, there had to be a recreation of… _other_ components of the crime scene, in which the victim was stabbed—I mean, came in contact—with certain implements that may—or may not—have been tainted with…a necrotizing fasciitis."

Face contorts, a double-take. "You put flesh-eating bacteria under my pillow? Under my _head_? Where I sleep? And where _you_ sleep, too, I might add, or did you forget that little gem?"

"No, John, of course not! Don't be silly!" Hands slip into pockets as eyes ponder the ceiling. "I'd immunized myself two weeks prior."

"YOU—UNBELIEVABLE—" Mouth clamps in a thin line. Eyes squeeze closed for a succession of deep cleansing breaths.

A hand waves. "It's fine, really." A dry cough. "But you might not want to touch your eyes for approximately thirty-six hours."

Fingers pinch the bridge of the nose. "God help me." A hand buzzes through silver feathers of hair. "Look, we have to go. It's his birthday."

Arms flail dramatically. "Oh, what difference does that make? So Garrett is another year older. Whoopee. Why is that still cause for celebration when it has happened forty other times?"

"It's _Greg_ , and he's 45."

"See! It makes even less sense."

"Come on. A drink or two at his favorite pub won't kill you. And he'll be disappointed if you're not there."

"Christ, he won't even notice. He'll be too busy making sure his wife isn't dipping into corners with half the patrons."

"Stop it."

"I mean, she's already made her way through most of the faculty at that school…"

"Enough."

"And when he's had a few pints, he always tries to do those dreadful magic tricks." The nose crinkles. "Like that painful one with the cards that he never gets right because he forgets to look at the bottom card before he shuffles, and even when he does, he can't actually _remember_ it, so he ends up flinging half the deck in your face until he just gives up entirely. It's embarrassing."

"At least he stopped trying to pull a quarter from behind your ear."

"You can't blame me for that! I didn't really _mean_ to hurt him, and his thumb has healed up nicely."

"Sure. After six weeks of physical therapy."

"Yes, well…" A shrug.

A firm palm goes up. "Just shut up. We're going."

Arms cross jauntily amid a pronounced pout. The lengthy wool coat is dropped around his shoulders, ignoring the groan of protest, and there's an encouraging pat to the back. "Come on. If you're a good boy, I'll let you heckle the karaoke singers."

Eyes peek sidelong over the upraised collar. "Really?"

" _And_ I'll convince Anderson to do his Dionne Warwick again."

The mouth twists to resist a white-toothed grin. "All right. Fine. Let's get this over with."

"Thank you." An arm extends to the staircase. "After you."

They descend together, their voices disappearing out to the street:

"I'm not wearing a stupid pointy hat, though."

"Fine."

"And I refuse to engage in that horrible birthday song. It sounds like a funeral dirge."

"No problem."

"Gary better appreciate this."

"It's _Greg_."

"Whatever."


	12. Chapter 12

**Sometimes, conversations are a mite lopsided...**

"Well, I warned you, didn't I?" Arms crossed, looming at the bedside.

The dark curls, splayed on a build-up of fat pillows, swish as the head turns toward its accuser.

"Oh, but the genius detective knew better. 'Get into his element,' you said. 'Catch him unguarded.' Such a wonderful idea, that. Proud of yourself?"

"Quite." A strangled hiss.

"Shut up. You shouldn't be talking." A hand rakes through rumpled silver locks. "I told you not to continue that stake out—three nights, half in the river, dressed like a shoeless bum? I _begged_ you. What the hell did you think was going to happen?"

"Fine." Another hiss, too thin to carry the weight intended by the dark glare in the eyes.

"No, you are NOT _fine_! Stalking around all night in that bilge water—who knows what kind of communicable disease fair those urchins were inviting you to."

Lips purse, the jaw clenches, as the glower follows the pacing form.

Arms extend to the heavens, shaking. "And it's _freezing_ , barely above zero most nights! Of course, why would you have bothered to plan for that? Christ, you could have ended up—"

The mouth opens to retort, but it is lost in a fit of thick, wracking coughs. It is several minutes before the the tousled head settles back, its pallid tone momentarily overtaken by a fierce red. Sweat speckles the forehead, droplets rolling down the temples and disappearing into the frenetic mass of hair.

The arms recross and click together as his hands wrap around both biceps. His head tilts forward, efficient eyes scan in increments. "And there it is. You've an acute respiratory infection and severe laryngitis. You mustn't speak. At all. Your throat lining looks like raw hamburger."

Eye roll.

"I mean it, Sherlock. You need to heal. Don't be such an idiot, or I'll tell Lestrade to come back and keep you company. He's got plenty to say since you stomped all over his six-month sting operation with your little jaunt at playing hobo. He damn near cuffed you."

A surge up, fueled by indignation. Blankets fall away. He sucks an intake of air for a heated reply, emitting only a faint whine before the coughs crumple him once again. The strained chaos of hacking forms fat tears in the periphery. He flops back, wasted.

He eases down onto the edge of the mattress with an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock, I _am_ a doctor. It is perfectly reasonable to listen to me every now and then, at least when it comes to health matters."

A long blink.

He raises his hand to absorb the tear streaks, smooth the matted hair from the perfect brow. His fire dissipates entirely, and he cradles his hand around the cheek. "I just worry about you. Far too much." Nostrils flare, and he blinks hard. "You're not _invincible_ , Sherlock, and I can't stand the thought of…" His head drops and it's a beat before he can raise it again to speak. "I don't want to see you hurt is all. I hate when you take unnecessary risks. Does that make sense to you?"

A barely perceptible nod. Eyes search the face, reading every detail.

A slight grimace appears. "Actually, I should probably confess something: Lestrade _did_ try to cuff you." A pause. "But I told him that if he so much as touched you, I'd break his arms." Teeth chew at the inner cheek. "Then he threatened to cuff _me_." Throat clears. "But since it took two of his officers to pull me off the killer after the bastard shoved you under the water, Scotland Yard gave me a pass."

Eyebrows spring up.

A wave of the hand, forcing levity. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I was a bad-ass army bloke, remember? I wore fatigues and rode in a tank and ate stuff out of a can." A comic eye roll. Then, he grows still and, almost imperceptibly, the pools of blue focus inward for a moment as he pinches his bottom lip between his index finger and thumb. "But I don't think you realize how much…" He sucks in a sudden breath. "I want to take it all on, you know— _all_ the grief, every punch thrown at you and every bullet fired…if it would mean that you'd be ok, if somehow, by some miracle, I could keep you safe. And I keep trying to because I act as if that's actually going to happen. So I keep running around like the daft kid in the story who tries to catch a rainstorm in his little pot. It's pointless, yeah? But every time it rains, he's out there. It's utterly impossible, but he refuses to ever give up." He returns his gaze to the pale face, tense but open, without accusation or guile. "Every time, Sherlock. No question. Every _single_ time." A shrug, nearly a shudder. "That's all."

Watery eyes edge with wonder, the pale cupid's bow of his mouth slightly ajar.

He glances around, soft mumbling from the television in the other room filling the silence. "Well, I suppose I should let you rest." A tender squeeze to the blanketed forearm. "Now, keep the vaporizer on, and no talking. Not a word. Text me if you need anything. I'll be right in the sitting room. Got it? Do NOT talk at all, not unless it is essential, like an absolute, extreme, desperate _need_. Understand?"

A brief nod, but the eyes still follow intently.

He clicks off the light, then tucks the blankets up around the broad shoulders, brushing a kiss to the soft flesh of the cheek, and moves to the door.

In the darkness, a husky whisper: " _John_?"

A hand freezes on the door knob.

" _I love you, too_."


	13. Chapter 13

And some conversations are lopsided like a knife cleaving the heart...

" _Sherlock!_ "

Freeze frame.

The image stamps itself into his mind like an iron spike through fresh concrete: John at the window, right hand gripping the curtain, face turned to him with wild eyes and mouth contorted in a scream. The sound of his own name hangs in the air above him.

Just a moment, a single fragment of time.

Then the ribbon lurches forward in a horrid somersault: he's splayed on the floor where John has thrown him to stand in his spot. A crash, and John is heaped next to him, curved away, bulky cabled jumper concealing the rungs of his spine. He blinks, breath knocked from him, and fights to get his bearings as the room dips and swirls around him.

"John," he croaks, crawling on his elbows to the other's side and grabbing him roughly by the shoulder, "what the hell was that? Are you out of your—-"

At first he doesn't understand. He sees the soaking red stain on the jumper's front, notes how its fibers expand under the weight of the thick liquid, digests how it had begun to pool in a neat circle on the wood planks of the floor. He stares dumbly at John's white face as if he doesn't recognize it. The skin looks like marble, frozen. Unnatural. He twists his head toward the window and catalogues the perfect circle where the bullet has bored through the glass.

He's pounded by a wave of nausea, bile rising in his throat like black lava. He straddles John's hips and leans over him, fists planted on either side of John's head, steadying himself. He dimly is aware of a hollow tone sounding deep in his ear that he comes to realize is his own voice. "NO! NO NO NO NO NO!" The word repeats, over and over and over, a hideous mantra that he cannot stop.

The eyes stare blankly. He can feel the wave of fear rolling off the dark form above him. He wants to offer comfort, but he cannot focus properly from the burning throb in his chest. His lips move faintly, mouthing at words he cannot form.

He layers his hands and presses down at the center of the stain to stem its unrelenting spread. The fabric makes a sickening squish under his palms. " _My God_! Why? Why did you do that? Why? Why, John?" he babbles.

The placid eyes drift to red, frantic ones. He fights through the fog that has started to envelope him. With effort, his numb hand inches up to wrap around one of the wrists on his chest. His bloodless lips quiver under the strain. "Sh…Sher…you…love you…"

His gut twists. Was that some kind of good-bye? "Stop it! Stop it now!" Breath stutters as panic rises and clenches his lungs. He searches the mild, unblinking eyes below him. "You _cannot_ leave me, do you hear? You can't. Not now. Not after…No! It's not fair!"

A smile ghosts his face, then his fingers slacken on the wrist. He's so tired. His hand falls.

No.

Eyes slip closed.

"John? _John_? Stay with me, John! Come on!" He fumbles at the throat, desperate fingers in search of a pulse. His own heart thuds painfully, and he grits his teeth for the calm necessary to feel out a sign.

Nothing. There's nothing.

His other hand works the buttons of his mobile to signal for an ambulance. Trembling, he puts the phone to his face long enough to spit an address and the words _gun shot_. Under different circumstances he may have been amused or pleased that his reputation is such that the operator recognized the address and called him by name before one was offered.

The device clatters to the floor as he leaps to John's left, tucking his knees next to the rib cage. In his mind, he is tortured by the echo of John's voice: _I want to take it all on..every punch..every bullet_. He knows that there is no scale of justice that would call for a fair trade between his own tormented life and that of a man the calibre of John Watson. He swoops his face down next to John's pallid features, then wedges the heels of his hands against the sternum and pumps a series of sturdy compressions before wrapping his lips around John's to transfer a hefty puff of air.

"John?"

Stillness.

Gasping, frantic, he links his fingers and tries again.

And again.

And again. Each time he imprints the white flesh of the neck with swirls of bloody fingerprints.

"Come on! _Please!_ " He digs his fingers into the throat once more. "Just be there. You have to _be there_!"

A weak throb pushes back.

Tears flood his eyes, lips quivering, but he flicks his head to keep from being overwhelmed by the desperate, clinging relief. He swats at his eyes to clear them, wiping swaths of blood across his forehead and temples. "I've got you, John. Don't worry. You'll be all right. You're going to be all right." He scrabbles around to reapply pressure to the wound.

The distant whine of sirens filter through the windows. His mobile flashes to life, Lestrade's name across the screen. He lets it ring.

He lowers his head just to feel the reassurance of the anemic push of air from John's nose. He stares at that face, the face that struck him the moment he saw it in the lab at Bart's. It's the face that greets him with a crooked smile and tea in bed; it's the face that thrills him with a grin of admiration when he dazzles another client with his observational acumen. It is the face which he rushes home to see when he pretends not to notice that it's been away, which he despises to see dimmed with disappointment, which is his barometer to everything good and right and worthwhile in the entire world.

He kisses the cool forehead and brings his mouth against the shell of the ear, pleading urgently, "I always believed emotion a flaw. But you…you're a gift. Loving you is a _gift._ You can't take that back now. I can't live without it anymore, John. I can't…"

There's a flurry on the stairs, and suddenly the room is alive with people and machines. Sherlock cradles John's head in his lap while they work, ignoring all orders to remove himself from the area. They cut and bind and prick and pump, clanging objects and unraveling tubes, but it's all a mere haze. He makes gentle strokes of his thumb up and down John's cheek and pulls his fingers in soothing lines through John's hair.

At some point, Lestrade bursts in. "Christ!" he barks. He stalks around, examining the window and talking gravely to someone on his mobile. He plants his feet next to Sherlock and peppers him with questions. Sherlock throws back occasional one-word answers to the inspector until the latter gives up and retreats, but he never turns his eyes away from John.

At last, the team hoists their patient up on a stretcher for transport. One medic shoots Sherlock a look, which he returns like implacable stone. "Where he goes, I go."

The man hesitates, but taking in the blood-smeared face and the dangerous eyes, realizes protest would be futile. He glances over to Lestrade who gives a curt nod, and the room empties, leaving a vacuum of cold silence behind.


	14. Chapter 14

Some conversations must occur via text message.

Hi.

You ok?

Woke up & you weren't here. Hate that.

Lestrade.

Replace me so soon?

Not. Possible. Arresting sniper.

Who?

Brother of Sussex Strangler.

The one who was at court?

Yes. Swore he'd end me. Almost did.

Almost ended ME.

Exactly.

He confess?

Yes. Laughed. Gloated.

He give a full statement?

Not yet. Lestrade agreed to wait.

When?

Three weeks.

Why?

That's when they'll cut the wire.

What wire?

The one holding his jaw together.

How'd he get that?

Told you—he laughed & gloated.

You didn't…

If he'd wanted all his teeth, he'd have hit his intended target.

You all right?

Quite. Can't say the same for the table in Interrogation 3.

Coming to hospital soon?

Need anything?

Yes.

Already got your laptop, book you'd started, pretzel sticks for night snacks. That all?

Great, but not what I need right now.

Name it.

Have strong urge to kiss someone. Nurse might agree to give it a go…

Not funny.

Guy across hall w/ three fingers seems nice.

Stop.

Suggestions?

One.

Get here. Now.

Be there in 10.


	15. Chapter 15

His eyelids flutter in the darkness, lungs puffing like a ragged bellows. Sweat percolates from his scalp, but his hands are ice. He teeters between worlds. "No…" Sheet and blanket suffocate, bind his limbs. Trapped. He thrashes, twisting himself deeper, working his legs mechanically, helpless to stop it. No way to reach the other side of the room to stop the flood of red that threatens to drown him. It pours in gluttonous swells from a tiny hole in the window. A frozen marble figure looms in the shadows, forehead tipped to the ground.. The motionless heap disappears, its thick cabled jumper billowing as it is engulfed by the tide of red.

His head twitches. An unsteadiness has shifted his hips and dislodged the oblivion.

He's thrown upright, panting. White hands clutch at the mattress. His head throbs, eyes gaping wildly into the inky air. Gradually, his breathing slows, matching the sure rhythm of the soft snores nearby.

"Hmmm?" His arm is swept away from his side and replaced by a solid form.

"Nothing." A whisper.

"Sher…? Mmmm. 'Nother one?" A tentative weight on his shoulder, the tickle of soft hair against his neck.

"Yes." Small, a breath.

"All right. 'S all right now." His arms gather the stiff body close, working automatically up and down the long spine in a soft rhythm. "Not dead."

He indulges in deep, long breaths, inhaling the comforting mint and aftershave and sleepy, musky scent. _John_. He entwines their legs and snakes his arms around the waist, tugging as tight as he dare. He tries to muster a confident reply, but it emerges a stuttering exhale.

"It's ok, 'm right here." A murmur, underscored by a gentle massage to the neck of clammy iron. He reflexively scoots closer, passes a finger along the jawline, and smooths the unruly soft curls.

His right hand presses against stomach, arm, thigh. Accumulating evidence, confirmation he's truly emerged from the nightmare that was and not merely entered one infinitely more cruel. "Sorry."

Sleep still weighs on him. He brushes a kiss to the forehead, warm hands settling at the nape and lumbar, never ceasing their languid pattern. "Shhhh…Got you." A hum.

He focuses on the warmth, hovers around the fire as if his very survival depends on it. The shooting star lights his mind: _it does_. It is not enough to make him retreat. Instead, he bends closer, feeling his core begin to thaw with each stroke. "Every bit, I'm afraid." A quiet admission.

A low chuckle. "That so?" He dips his nose into the fluffy hair and kisses blindly. He rolls onto his side, cheek snugged into the crux of his elbow, a lazy grin settling on his lips. "Good. Hate to be alone in it."

"Good…yes…" Long fingers hover above the curve of the cheek. "You're never alone, John. Not ever."

He opens his eyes at that, nudged out of the thicker haze of slumber by the serious tone. He reaches out to lace their fingers together. "Sure you're ok?"

A squeeze of the joined hand.

"You know it wasn't your fault, right?"

A sharp inhale. Silence, breath held.

He grunts mildly. "Knew it." He wraps his free hand around the shoulder knob and gives it a light shake. " _I_ acted. _I_ chose. The only thing _you_ did was save my life."

"John…" More a gasp. "You took a bullet for me— _literally_ took a bullet for me. How can you…" He trails off, at once amazed and appalled.

"Right. I did. Do it again, too. In a heartbeat." Calm, matter-of-fact.

Rapid blinking does little to stem the wash of images that come to him, a rising of the red nightmare out of which he'd fought. Stale panic buffets him. " _John_."

He pulls their linked hand, drawing it to his chest and Sherlock along with it. Their noses brush together. "Look, here's what I know: According to Lestrade, you kept me pumping until the ambulance arrived. You rode to hospital with me. You sat on the floor outside the ICU for two days until they allowed me a visitor. Then, you stayed every day and every night, even when the doctor threatened to poison you if you spoke to him again. And somewhere in there, you managed to nab the shooter. I'd say that's bloody fantastic, wouldn't you?"

Protests tangle and die in his throat. He leans his forehead against the other, gripping his hand so tightly his knuckles begin to numb.

"And in any of that, did you once think of stopping, just popping off 'cause it was too hard or not worth it?"

A thick, convulsive breath. " _God_ no! I could never…I…you just _had_ to be all right. That's it. There was _no other way_."

"Ah. So we _do_ understand each other, then." The satisfied smile beams through the small, dark space between them. "You're finally starting to get it."

"Get what?"

"What it really means to be in love."

Sherlock's head swims. He'd always fancied himself the smartest person in any room, and with good reason. But now, lying here with this sharply clever man who so willingly stands aside and allows him to absorb the every photon of the spotlight, he is dimly aware of worlds that have existed completely outside of his single-minded view. There in the empty abyss has always been light, but his eye was not attuned to its frequency. With John Watson as his patient conductor, he sees the full spectrum. It is beautiful and terrifying, and he struggles not to shield his eyes from its brilliance. He's lived like Gollum, on an island in the dark, and it will take time to attune his vision to this strange and wonderful new reality.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Scared shitless yet?"

Sherlock laughs in surprise. _How does he know that?_

"Must be a shock to that massive intellect to gather empirical evidence which debunks one of your pet hypotheses."

"Wha…how do you mean? Which hypothesis?"

"That whole 'grit in the lens' nonsense. Your conduct _proves_ emotion isn't a weakness; instead, it damn near gives you superpowers. Makes you capable of things that otherwise would be unimaginable."

He feels a jolt, a seismic shift of the tectonic layout of his carefully-wrought mind. His pulse races, neurons firing in dizzying arrays. He licks his lips and resets his grip on John's hand to keep himself from spinning off into space. "I think…perhaps…it is entirely possible that I _may_ have been—what is that favorite phrase of yours? oh, yes—'spectacularly ignorant.'"

It's John's turn to laugh. He clears his throat and mimics the low voice, "That's fairly obvious."

And then it is impossible not to kiss him, not to pull him flush and try to melt entirely into him.

At length, John settles his head on the broad shoulder. He whispers into the ear, telling it his secrets. "Look at it this way: when you give away a part of yourself, you lose control of it. You have to let it be watched over by someone else. You have to endure trust and restraint, sometimes joy, sometimes ache. And you never know which coming, so you have to hold on, no matter what." He kisses the fuzzy lobe. "Hang opioids—can you really think of a more outrageous high than that?"

He blinks several times, then smiles broadly, white teeth glinting, " _Incredibly_ addictive, it seems." He feels warm, tingly, alert and exhausted at the same time. "Good thing I'm under a doctor's care."

"And only a fool argues with his doctor."

He flutters thoughtful fingers through the silver hair. "You know, I spoke to you that night. I told you that you couldn't take it back, what you'd given me, that I…didn't think I could live without it anymore." A wisp of a question lingers.

He leans his head up just enough to look down into the eyes. He gazes steadily into the heart of the dark, glistening pools, leaving no doubt. "I heard you."

**Author Note: PLEASE leave a comment and let me know what you think so far!**


	16. Chapter 16

A pep talk, Sherlock-style.

"Well, how do I look?" Arms raised with mock drama.

"Unforgettably handsome." An absent mumble.

Arms droop. "Oh, come on! You didn't even look."

The back remains turned, eyes intent on the microscope, but the voice is full of warmth. "I don't have to."

A crooked smile appears unbidden. But he slips his hands onto his hips. "Seriously, Sherlock."

A sigh of exasperation as another slide clicks onto the scope. "I am in the midst of an investigation. I do not have time to—"

"Please?"

He spins jauntily on the kitchen stool to face John in the entrance way. But what he sees stops him short, and his zippy comeback dies on his lips. John could not be more dapper in a blue flannel suit that makes his eyes shimmer like a Pacific wave. The suit has clearly been tailored, following his lines with ideal symmetry. The top two buttons of the crisp white button-down shirt are undone, offsetting the lightly tanned skin, a delicious invitation that makes Sherlock's mouth run dry.

"Well?"

He swallows with effort, voice tight. "Very nice."

A rare full smile lights his face. "Thank you." He whips a silken tie around his neck and turns to the mirror above the fireplace. His fingers fumble, flipping the dark-checked fabric ineffectually back and forth. "I'm not exactly looking forward to addressing this symposium. When Stamford asked me, I didn't really feel I could say no."

"Why?"

"I owe him."

"For what?"

Eyes connect in the reflection. "Oh, a little favor he did for me a while back."

An eyebrow quirks.

A wink.

"Let me help you with that." Sherlock slides from his perch and crosses to stand close behind John, reaching over shoulders to twist and knot the tie for him.

John watches Sherlock's face while he works, the laser focus and deft movements that he always adopts when he sets upon a task. Unconsciously, John leans back against him.

Sherlock finishes, straightening the shirt's collar carefully and enfolding John totally in his embrace so that he can smooth the lapels and pick invisible lint from various spots.

Finally, he stands back and nods curtly. "There. Perfect."

He turns to face Sherlock, uncertain. "Yeah? Good?" He wags his head back and forth, ominous snaps sounding from the tight vertebrae. "Well, guess I'm ready. Wish me luck."

A scoff. "Don't be absurd."

Forehead crinkles. "What? Why?"

Arms cross, impatient eyes rolling around the ceiling. "Who will be present today?"

"Ah, let's see…Residents, students…"

"Neophytes."

"…hospital admins…"

"Fools."

"…some GP's, trauma guys, specialists…"

"Idiots."

The neck quirks, exasperated. " _Sher_ lock!"

The gaze drops, pins on him with the rapid-fire. "Luck, John, is for the weak and ill-prepared. Neither term applies to you, Doctor. Ever. Those you'll address today haven't an iota of your medical experience and could never have lasted more than a few terrorized minutes in the vast majority of the circumstances you've faced. Most of _this_ audience would likely have a coronary if their lattes are tepid. Conclusion: it is _they_ who should be keyed up, gnashing their capped little teeth upon discovering they're in the presence of the one person in the room who has saved more lives than all the rest combined."

His head swoops down in surprise, digesting. He takes in Sherlock's impassive face. "You…"

"Yes?"

"…are the sweetest person in the world. And only I know it." He leans up and kisses the ivory cheek, lingering slightly longer than he needs to.

Fingers waggle dismissively, but the edge has melted. "Nonsense. I but speak the truth."

"You could've just told me to picture them all naked."

"God, no. Tried that once in court. Ghastly."

There's a momentary pause, then both dissolve into giggles.

Finally, John squares his shoulders, amazed to discover that the tension that had plagued him all morning has evaporated entirely. He scoops a portfolio from the side table by his chair. "Right, I'm off. Back around 9. Maybe some dinner at that new Thai place?"

"Looking forward."

As the quick steps fade, Sherlock returns to the stool and settles down to the eyepiece, but he's unable to keep his fingertips from the warm spot on his cheek nor the rods of his vision from swimming in blue.


	17. Chapter 17

A little domestic, part one

"I saw you."

"What?"

" _I saw you_." Every word a bite of steel.

"Saw me when? What are you talking about?"

"At Angelo's. You and the blonde woman with the wavy hair, the one who hates her job, based on her fingernails, and according to her earrings, can lie like a nun." Both hands grip the mantle, head downturned, face turned away.

Brows knit, at a loss. Then a head shake of sudden recollection "Oh! Yeah, sure. I think her name was Mary. She's a nurse or something. Said she'd come to meet some friends."

A bark of a laugh. "Oh, sure she did. In that purple dress? Who are her friends, pageant clerks? Absurd. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was hunting and she came armed to the teeth."

A sigh. "Look, Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Whatever you thought you saw—"

"Thought? _Thought_?" He whirls around, face a red mask, tendons working like piano wires in his temples. "I didn't _imagine_ it, John, the sight of you giggling like a school boy with that woman, letting her fondle your sleeve and run at the mouth with what I'm sure she figured could pass for scintillating conversation, mooning over you with those doe eyes, trapping her prey."

His jaw hangs open. "Trap…Just wait a minute. Why are you so—what the hell are you on about? You think she was flirting with me?"

A smirk, dripping with derision. "Well, congratulations on the brilliant deduction, Doctor. How long did it take to work that one out? It's far more likely that she dressed herself up as posh as she could so she could show the linguini special a really good time."

"Oh, come on. Seriously. I'd popped in for a bite, she overhead Angelo call me 'doctor' and sat down to chat a minute. A bit tipsy, but nice enough, I suppose. No big deal. Said her friend's getting married and the girls were celebrating, something like that." Arms flop in frustrated askance. "Why does any of this matter?"

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters, clearly. You're a free man—you can do whatever you like. Or whomever, as it happens."

A deepening frown, stippling the strained confusion and surprise. He holds up a hand. "Stop it. Stop this. What's gotten into you?"

A jerky step forward, a rush raising him up on his toes. "Gotten into _me_? No. No, you don't get to ask that question. You don't get to ask that until _you_ are walking home and look through a window and see how easily _I've_ replaced _you_ , tossed over like trash in a bin. And just for laughs, it'll be right _there_ , for all to see, in that very spot where we—" He whips around, waving away the rest to stave off the tremor that had crept into his voice.

John feels winded, as if he's been punched in the gut. He runs a hand over his face. "My God. Sherlock, no. Just…no. That is not—"

"I don't want to hear it, John."

"Sherlock, this is completely insane! You have to talk to me, please. Explain to me why—"

He spins on his heel, hands slid casually into pockets, practiced indifference wiping the slate of his face clear. "Thanks, I'll pass. I've some business that needs my attention." He breezes past and scoops up his coat.

"What, you're going out? On a case?"

He shrugs the garment on, slick as ice. "Nothing you need worry about. I'm sure you've plenty of ways to keep yourself busy." He flips the collar up and sweeps from the room without a second glance.

He slumps onto the sofa, blinking slowly, still wearing the leather coat he'd never gotten the chance to remove. The muted clatter of traffic and the lone wail of a siren fill the empty air.


	18. Chapter 18

A little domestic, part two

John stares straight ahead, flatlined. He's not budged from his perch on the sofa, still zipped in his jacket. He feels vaguely dazed, one beaned in the head by a fist he'd never seen raised. It is not long before the sofa dips next to him, the sombre figure yet wrapped in his own outerwear. Both stare unseeing at a point before them.

"Thought you had a case."

"No."

"That's what you said. None of my business, though—made sure that part was clear."

A steady drag of breath in and out of the nose.

"You went to Angelo's, didn't you? You had to go check on my story, make sure I wasn't lying and trying to shag every stranger who said hello."

"No."

"'Course you did. Had to run down your little theory like a proper detective."

"No."

"Where'd you race off to, then? Hasn't been long enough to roam the city lighting fires and slaying dragons."

"I was outside the front door."

Eyebrows gather like storm clouds. "What?"

He leans back, angling his head against the wall to direct his blank stare at the ceiling.

"You've just been standing downstairs?"

"Yep."

"But you've been gone for at least a half an hour."

"Yep."

"Why? Keeping watch? Figure someone was going to come calling?" Droll, a needle.

A wearied sigh. "I hadn't even descended the stairs before I realized my miscalculation. Then I felt like too much of a dickhead to turn around. Aimless loitering seemed like the logical choice at the time."

"What do you mean 'miscalculation'?"

"In my work, I arrive at immediate conclusions based upon my cursory observations—as I _must_ do—along with an accumulated knowledge of average human behavior."

"So?"

"So in my…haste, I neglected this time to account for the most important factor."

"And that is…?"

"You. I am not dealing with an average human; I am dealing with you. Honor and decency are as inherent to you as breathing. Betrayal is not in your make-up."

A long silence.

Eyes slip closed. The voice shrinks, nearly a plea. "I'm not _used_ to this, John."

"To what?" A curious murmur.

Fists clench. " _Caring_ so much."

A mild snort of laughter.

Hands raise, crooked and tense fingers punctuating every word."I mean it! It is maddening and _baffling_ and…When I saw you with that woman, I just felt this…this…terrible _surge_ of…I don't know, it was as if I were just so…so—"

"Jealous?"

Arms drop, defeated. "Yes."

"Welcome to the human race, Sherlock Holmes."

A groan. "God, how do ordinary people survive it?"

"Guess you'll find out."

Grumbled, "It is not as if you didn't warn me, I suppose."

"About what?

"I'm fairly certain 'scared shitless' was the eloquent phrase you used."

"That's it, sure. But you've absolutely no reason to be jealous. You have to know that."

Piqued, the words tumble in a continuous stream. "No, I do not _have_ to know that. As an intellectual exercise, that's a reasonable statement because you are who you are. But that doesn't _entirely_ matter because I am who _I_ am. And because I know who I am, I know that someone with your roster of attributes should aspire to something more."

He angles his head away, propping it up on two fingers. "Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

"Don't you see? Not just something _more_ , John—something better."

"Something not you."

"Precisely."

"You're an idiot."

The face blanks.

"My stupid, completely adorable, fucking idiot. You should've just come into the restaurant. Would've saved me the trouble of this." His foot slides, crinkling a plastic bag on the floor.

A momentary loss, then the face raises, drawing an audible sniff. "Eggplant scallopini?"

"And those garlic rolls you like."

The head droops below the peaks of the coat collar.

"And I always sit at that table in front, you know."

"Do you?" Small, muffled.

A slow nod.

"Why?"

The face finally turns with deliberate slowness. Eyes lock in a pointed and relentless gaze, lips slightly pursed.

"Oh."

He turns forward again. A warm hand slides over, gathering up the cold pale fingers, squeezing lightly and massaging the back of the hand in slow circles with the pad of his thumb. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Idiot."


	19. Chapter 19

The boys entertain a guest, and things get nicely spiced!

Large eyes fix on him, chips of ice blue. The haughty gaze withers as their subject's muted frustration grows. The stare-down, undeterred by the strumming of fingers on the wooden desk and noisy exhalations of breath, lengthens awkwardly from seconds to minutes. When at last he breaks and looks to the ceiling, his opponent marks the victory with a twitch of whiskers and a slow blink, radiating boredom.

"John, how long is this creature to remain with us?"

He leans on the kitchen table with his elbows, head shoved into the fold of the morning newspaper. Around a bite of toast, he asks, "What's that?"

Lips purse. "This furry abomination. How long must I endure it?"

The paper droops. A sigh, resignation. He shuffles to the entrance of the sitting room. Sherlock is seated at their shared desk, an enormous binder of blood spatter images before him, but facing him upon the open page sits fourteen pounds of Siamese cat, Stamford's beloved companion, whom John had agreed to take care of while the former went on holiday.

John angles against the woodwork, folding his arms across his chest. He bites down hard on his tongue to stifle his laughter, wondering vaguely why his mobile was never nearby when pictures were screaming to be taken. "What, don't you like George?"

Sherlock gapes at him. "Like? How could anyone 'like' a beast such as this? It is ill-mannered; it does what it pleases when it pleases, and it seems utterly impervious to discipline."

A snort, "Huh, imagine that…What's your point?"

The long spine straightens precipitously, but he lets the comment slide. He raises a palm and gestures at the cat. "What is the meaning of this behavior?"

George yawns, licking at the tip of his snout. He flicks his tail around to cover neatly the toes of his front feet. John grins mildly and shrugs. "Cats tend to be a bit obsessive so they go for the out of place object, like an open book on a cleared desk. And they like to be in the middle of whatever their humans are doing."

Eyes narrow as he looks George up and down. " _I_ am not your human, feline." To John, he grouses, "I have encouraged it to move several times, yet it persists. Why does it remain where it is not wanted?" He scans the room. "Where did I leave that harpoon?"

"Oh, shut up. Cats are just independent, stubborn, especially a big boy like George."

"If 'stubborn' is code for _insufferable_ , then we agree." He picks at his sleeves, nose crinkling with disdain. "This creature sheds its fur everywhere it walks!"

"And that bothers you? What, is it overtaking your dust collection?"

"Skin cells are far more decorous," he quips drily. He raises an eyebrow at George. "Perhaps this lump could do with a shave…"

George's chocolate ears flatten, his long face imperious. As John's laughter bubbles out, the cat's azure eyes settle closed, and he appears to be napping, a giant immovable purring Buddha perched upon the photo remains of the Leeds triple murder.

"He is a handsome fellow, though. Regal, yeah? Ancient Egyptians revered cats as gods, in case you didn't know."

He quirks his head at the affront. "That egregious miscalculation no doubt explains in part why their empire fell."

John rolls his eyes and pads over to stand behind Sherlock. He stretches his arm over the shoulder to scratch George's chin. "That the spot, eh?" The cat's purr revs higher and he squawks a meow. "Good boy," John concedes, rubbing his ivory chest.

"He is less than stellar as a bookmark," Sherlock harrumphs. "Doorstop, more like."

John chuffs a laugh. "Oh, relax, he's not so bad." He holds his fingers to George's cheek, and the cat instinctively pushes against them a few times. Abruptly, he flops down, sprawling across the binder's facing pages so John can massage his ample belly. "Take it as a compliment. Cats are really selective about the people they like."

Eyebrows shoot up. "Am I to understand that you actually enjoy this beast's company?"

"Yeah, 'course."

"I cannot comprehend how that might be possible," he pronounces archly, blocking the cat's tail as it is about to whack him in the nose.

A wry chuckle. "Practice, I guess."

The forehead crinkles. "Of what kind? You've not been the owner of one of these animals, have you?"

"Umm, no…" He presses forward and slides both of his arms over Sherlock's shoulders, grasping his hands together in front of his chest. "But I seem to get on with their personality type."

The tone is low and teasing, and it piques Sherlock's interest; he twists his head enough to digest impish sparkling eyes and the bottom lip partially clamped between his teeth. "Have you now…" His mouth draws up at one corner.

"Yep."

"Do tell, Doctor."

He leans down and places his chin on the broad shoulder. "Well, let's just say I have an affinity for obsessive, finicky, stubborn boys with unruly hair and unforgettable blue eyes. They're kind of my _thing_."

"Is that so?" He slowly funnels his hands down the wiry forearms. "Are you suggesting that this beast and I bear some likeness to one another?" He means it to be a scoff, but as he absorbs the radiating warmth of John's whole body enveloping him, breath against his ear, he finds himself far too distracted to take offense to much of anything.

John ignores the question. He clears his throat and adds, "So while other people might not understand them, they make perfect sense to me." He swings around in front of Sherlock and sits against the edge of the desk. His fingers curl slowly around the undone tie of the silken dressing gown. "You just have to love them for who they are."

Sherlock moves impulsively. He tugs John onto his lap and cradles the back of his head with one hand, wrapping the other possessively around his hip. _Irresistible_. He slides his palm around John's neck, burying it in his hair. He tips the head back and kisses John deeply, his tongue delving into the warm interior of his mouth. He leans back slightly, watching John's flushed face.

John struggles to remember why he entered the room in the first place. As Sherlock tilts away, eyes dark and needy, he struggles to remember how to breathe. He tips forward, drawn uncontrollably to his mouth, snaking his arms under Sherlock's shirt and around his torso, feeling the delicious goose flesh wash over him.

Sherlock hums his satisfaction and grips the hip tighter against him. As his fingers trace wicked patterns in the tender skin at the small of the back, he suddenly feels a sharp jab to several knuckles. "What in the—"

John twists his head in time to see George's raised paw bat down several more times after Sherlock's fingers. He smothers his face against the ivory neck, but it does little to keep his surprised laugher from sounding. "Oh, what's the matter, Georgie? You put off? Need some love, too?" He sits back, moving to placate the insistent cat; instead, Sherlock flaps his hand an inch from George's nose, causing him to bleat a disapproving mao and retreat, leaping to the window sill to commence his morning bath.

John's jaw drops. "Hey! What's that about?"

He regains his hold on John, his fingers flexing against his bare skin. "You may find that beast and I to be odd mirrors of one another," he rumbles, "but the one thing I will never share willingly with him—or anyone— is the pleasure of your affections."

John's eyes close. Between the smooth tenor of Sherlock's voice and the hypnotic motion of his hands, he feels his insides turning to jelly. "Ok…"

Sherlock nudges John to his feet and stands, tugging on his hand. "Come with me."

"Where're we going?"

"We have more to discuss on this issue." He angles his head. "In private."

John's tongue pokes his cheek. "If you insist…" He moves ahead of Sherlock, their voices fading down the hallway.

"Old George might get lonely out there."

"Good."

"You want me to scratch behind your ears instead?"

"I'm counting on it."

"Can I call you Frisky?"

"Not if you expect me to answer."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

As the bedroom door clicks shut, George hops from the window and onto the couch where Sherlock's wool coat rests over one arm. George climbs onto it, kneading it in circles, claws pulling up dark strings of fabric each time. When he is satisfied, he thumps down in a ball, purring incessantly, and drifts off to sleep with his placid face tucked into the curve of his tail.

**As always, I'd love to know your thoughts-please leave a comment and tell me what you think!**


	20. Chapter 20

A little morning negotiation.

"It's your turn."

A mumble, lost to the feathers of the pillow's interior.

"John…" The sheet billows as he taps at the forearm draped over his waist.

He shifts, burrowing his nose into the back of the neck. Warm breath swishes the curls aside. "You make it. You're a chemist, bloody brilliant one, too."

He pulls the hand up and buries his involuntary smile beneath the open palm. He gives it a quick kiss, then tucks it tightly to him. "But I like yours."

A groan of protest. "'m still sleeping." He burrows further against the soft expanse of the sculpted back and shoulders.

"Shall I wake you then?"

The lips quirk. "I'd like to see you try."

Eyes pop open. "Are you challenging me, Doctor?"

"Nope. No challenge. 'Cause you already lost."

Mouth gapes. "How did I already—"

He jabs a finger into the soft bend of the waist.

A yelp. "Don't do that!"

Giggled, "Don't be ticklish."

Another jab pulls a high-pitched wail. "John! I said—"

A series of pinches and pokes sets the long limbs flailing. The sheet puffs high, and he finds himself pinned to the mattress, bony knees locked against his hips and wrists seized in an iron grip. As the flustered figure looms above, laughter spills from him in waves until his core aches from the strain.

Panting, he leans forward, cheeks pink. He tries to look menacing, but he is unable to keep the corners of his mouth from turning upward. "You know I hate to be tickled. You're playing a very dangerous game, John. You should have been more careful."

"Me? Really? You sure about that?"

Eyes narrow.

"Because as far as I can tell, I'm still laying here, and _you_ are up now, so game over." A purposeful sniff. "I'll take mine with two biscuits, thanks." He beams.

He sits back a little, resting on John's thighs. He's quiet for a moment. "And is that all?"

A satisfied nod. "Yeah, for now. Go on, then. Hop to."

The smile snakes to something wicked. He angles forward again. Hair falls around his face. "What, no sugar?"

"I don't like to add sugar."

He pulls the wrists around, placing the warm hands deliberately against his hips. "I think you do."

He licks his lips. "Why would I?"

Falling flush, he presses his mouth to the shell of the ear and whispers "Because it makes everything better."

His fingers dig into the slender hips. "Prove it."

He pulls the earlobe into his mouth, achingly slow, caressing it with sweeps of his tongue until he is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath and something akin to a whimper. He tilts his head back so his eye can look directly into John's. "Convinced?"

"Almost."

A lightning flash and he finds himself rolled to the mattress, strong hands tangling into his hair. John kisses him hard, a delicious hunger that saturates them both. He savors it, matching every pass of the tongue, every movement of the jaw. His fingertips clutch at John's cheeks to keep him there as long as possible.

Large pupils rimmed in blue bore into him, nose tips touching. "All right. So maybe you _are_ a genius."

The arms stretch, folding behind his head. A sigh and a smirk of self-satisfaction emerge. One long leg lifts slightly and the pale ankles cross. "Indeed. Perhaps then you'll agree with my considered assessment that _you_ are the one who is up now, Doctor. Game over."

"Why, you—"

The eyebrows dance.

John throws his head back and laughs, in spite of himself. He shrugs, "Yeah, well, that was worth a trip to the kitchen." He flips his index finger along the underside of the ivory chin, then slides to the edge of the bed and stands, stretching his back and grabbing Sherlock's dressing gown.

"I think I will have—"

"Lemon cake, a touch of milk, in that old white cup with the chip on the handle?"

A small smile.

He bows at the waist, then mimics the resonant voice. "I observe…" An eye roll, and he disappears into the hallway.

Sherlock snuggles down into the covers and listens: the clinking of dishes and pots, the swish of water, a few notes of a tuneful hum. He wraps John's pillow in a bear hug, awash in a sensation that still feels odd for him: relaxation. Happiness. His eyes drift closed, and the layers of sleep blanket him once again.


	21. Chapter 21

Dinner conversation becomes food for the soul.

"Why do you do that?"

The fork freezes. "Hmm?"

He nods pointedly at the plate. "That."

"What, use a knife?" He slices another hunk of chicken off and slips it between his lips, raising his eyebrows. "Old habits, you know. Surgical residency." A wink, the jaw working around.

Lips purse.

"Oh, no, you mean…eat carbs?" He twirls a spindle of noodles. "Sherlock, are you saying I need to watch my weight?" An exaggerated pout before he strips the fork clean with his teeth.

He leans against the table's edge with his forearms, fork poised between two fingers. "I have spent many meals across from you, John. I've seen how you approach your dinner."

Mock surprise. "Sherlock Holmes has been dissecting again?" The back of a hand goes dramatically to the forehead. "Whatever shall I do?"

A small smile, letting the humor roll by. His voice quiets. "Seriously, John. I want to know."

He pauses, then sighs. "Ok. Out with it."

Sherlock scoots closer, sitting higher over the table as he speaks, his deductive fervor overtaking him. "Typically, you devour meals directionally, left to right across the plate. Proteins, starches, all of it. What you don't like you push to the right lower quadrant, as if you want to hide it beneath your arm, maybe because you were expected to clean your plate as a child, but given your fit build and the innate kindness with which you live every day, it's more likely that you're simply being polite."

John puts down his utensils, resting his chin on folded hands. "My but you've done your homework." Quiet, but tinged with the same admiration he's felt from the start.

He directs his intense gaze fully to John's face. "But in the last month, you've started to disseminate your main course first, carving exactly three small bites and pushing them to the top of your plate, away from you. You do not eat these, except if they are left at the end, after everything else has been picked clean."

He takes a swig of beer and waits.

"It cannot be related to the food type. You've exhibited this behavior in 21 of the last 26 meals we have shared, all of varying origins. And curiously, when you invited Mrs. Hudson up for a plate of fish the night I was held up at the Boyer deposition, you did _not_ do this. I entered roughly fifteen minutes after you had started to dine, judging from the condensation on your glasses, and you had reverted to your typical left to right pattern."

"That all?"

Bright eyes probe his face. "Isn't that enough?"

He takes up his fork again, stabbing absently at the center of his plate, a curious smile curling his mouth. "Apparently not, since your mystery seems unsolved."

With his left hand, he slaps at his hair, pushing it from his forehead, eyes searching a middle distance only he can see. His right hand, still gripping his fork, sinks into one of the reserved hunks of food at the rim of John's plate. He chews slowly, one bite after another, head shaking as he dismisses theory after theory. One part of his mind registers the taste, and he comments vaguely, "Nice. Tender, that."

John clears his throat. "Cracked the case yet, Detective?"

Startled, his hands drop to his lap. "No."

"Missing a few clues?"

"Apparently."

He gestures to his plate. "So am I."

Sherlock stares at it, hard. His eyes move to John's, digesting the soft smile and the amusement that crinkles the edges of his face.

"You told me once that the first bites of a meal are the best, that a person's enjoyment dissipates after the third bite." He tilts his head. "Now why would I choose not to eat what is, theoretically speaking, the best part of my very own meal?" The index finger taps the bottom lip. "Hmmm…That's a tough one."

Sherlock tries to respond. But his jaw, loose in its hinges, won't cooperate.

Eyes widen. "Sherlock Holmes stumped _and_ speechless?" He cranes his neck around. "God, where's my laptop? _This_ needs a full page in the blog!"

"So that's…you mean, all of it…it was only for…"

"Yes?"

"…me?"

" _Now_ he's got it!" John pats his fingertips together in mock applause. "Well, you're such a bloody snarf. You _pretend_ you aren't, with that 'just transport' line and you're ridiculous metabolism, but that fork seems to land on my plate as much as your own. I figured resistance was futile." His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes have turned a warmer shade of blue. He draws a crooked smile, then drops his head, brushes at a few nonexistent crumbs on the table's edge.

Sherlock still stares, unmoving.

Finally, John laughs, cheeks pink. "Stop it! What is the matter with you?"

Abruptly, he slides from his stool, fork clattering onto the table top. He clutches his arms around John, lifting him off his seat, crushing him in a hug. His fists grab bundles of his shirt, and he squeezes tighter. He buries his nose into the crux of John's neck, swallowing hard at the lump that constricts his throat.

John's eyes fly open. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, gently stroking up and down his back with both hands. His smile fades. "Hey, you all right? What's happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Broken and muffled by the skin of John's neck.

John cards his fingers through the thick curls and coaxes the head up so he can see the eyes, dark and edged with what he could only label as bewilderment. "Tell me. Please."

Sherlock draws his lips into a thin line, eyes slipping closed. He breathes in and out through his nose for several beats. "No one surprises me, John. No one. Ever. It's as if I can see all their thoughts with how transparent their actions are, how predictable their motivations. And the most predictable part for all of them is the selfishness— _no one_ acts without the assured promise of personal reward."

John nods abstractly, softly kneading the muscles at the small of Sherlock's back.

Strong hands suddenly grip John's shoulders. "You're the only person I've ever encountered who breaks that pattern. You deliberately do things for others at the cost of your own comfort. It is actually your natural instinct. Do you have any _idea_ how rare that is? And you do this with no _obligation_ to do so; you never call attention to it nor expect it to be returned. All you think about is—"

"You."

Sherlock's eyes dampen and he sucks in a breath, voice thinning. "And that's the strangest part." His face tenses, a cringe. "Why? Why _me_?"

"Why not you?"

"None of it makes any sense." Eyes drop to the floor.

John centers his hands around the taut waist. "Listen, Sherlock, you're not the only one who finds people depressingly predictable."

Eyes snap up, brows knitting together.

"At one point in my life, I was drowning in it. Went half way around the world to pull myself out of it, and just ended right back where I'd started." A light squeeze. "Until I met you. You break every convention that's ever been stuffed in my face. With you, there's no map, no guide rails. Since I've moved in here, I've not had a 'typical day.' And _thank God_. Most people bore the piss out of me."

Sherlock's head tilts; his eyes rove over John's face, as if he is not quite sure he's hearing correctly and has to read his lips to make sure he's not mistaken.

He gives a lopsided grin. "Why you? No one else comes close. You're _it_."

Hands curl again into the fabric of the plaid shirt, working it through his fingers, the certainty and solidity of it, a quiet reality test. "I see." It's a brainless reply, but all he can muster.

John's fingertips brush his cheek. "Probably not—not yet, anyway. But you will, in time."

They sink back onto the stools and pick silently at the remains of their dinner. John drains his bottle. Minutes pass, then Sherlock looks up at him. "Truthfully, I never thought I'd ever find it."

"What's that?"

"Someone who would feel love _because_ of me, not despite me."

That stabs his heart. A sharp nod, and he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hand. Throat clears, voice gravelly. "Same."


	22. Chapter 22

Some banter during a relaxing evening at home.

"My feet hurt." Toes crackle beneath fuzzy red socks, heels against the carpet.

"Told you not to wear those shoes." A tired murmur.

He locks his knees, raising heels from the floor and rotating the ankles around. "Wouldn't have made a difference. Chasing up and down half the fire escapes in the city after that stupid gang of thieves would've done in trainers, too."

"Likely so." Sighed, drawled into a yawn.

"Nice move on that tall one, by the way."

A scoff. "That moron. He figured his tire lever was some kind of assault rifle. His mohawk spikes were more intimidating."

"Lame shot by his mate to be the hero and crib the evidence." Eyebrows knit. "First time I've used the Heimlich for something worth millions, though."

A wry smile. Hands burrow further under the thigh that pillows his head.

The clicking of the remote stutters. "Jesus, Sherlock, don't you have any circulation? Your fingers are like ice."

"'Cold hands, warm heart'—isn't that the expression?"

John bites his bottom lip, wrapping a few dark curls around his free hand. "Touché."

He settles on a channel with some kind of fix-it show. A man in enormous canvas coveralls beats at studs with a sledge, screaming over his shoulder at a frightened couple wearing ill-fitting safety goggles who hover in the other room. He places the remote on the sofa's arm and lays his head back. Without thinking, his hands massage the muscles of the shoulder and neck in soft, soothing circles. "Maybe I should replace the kitchen faucet."

A soft grunt. "Why would you do such an ungodly thing?"

"It's leaky. And you complain about it not having the clearance for your graduated cylinder. New one'd solve all that."

Sherlock resets his cheek against the soft flannel of John's sleep pants. "Old plumbing makes repairing a human body seems like child's play, does it not, Doctor?" His tone is wry, and John can hear the smile in it. "Mrs. Hudson may have forgiven the bullet holes, but I doubt she'd be as kind with a waterfall in her drawing room."

John swats his shoulder. "Hey, I've got some skills, you know. I could do it."

A lanky arm drapes around the knees. "Indeed." His ratty t-shirt rides up, and he can feel a warm palm against his rib cage, easing it back into place. "Your hands can work miracles."

"You flirting with me?"

He squeezes the legs, tucking himself closer against them, feeling a new warm tingle as the palm slides down to rest on his hip. "Endlessly."

"I did a bit of home repair work as a kid."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. My uncle was a contractor. Summer I turned 14 he let me tag along on jobs, help out when I could." He trails off, caught up in images, ghosts of the past.

Sherlock could feel a shift. He rolls over so he can look up into John's face, pulling the gentle hand up to his chest. He peers into the hooded eyes. "Is that when…?"

John's lips press together. He nods. "Dad left that spring. Just…gone." He stares unseeing at the flickering images on the screen. "Mum never said his name again, when she did talk. And Harry…" He swallows, turning the same curl of Sherlock's hair in his fingers, over and over. "It all kind of went to hell after that."

Sherlock bends his knees, feet flat against the sofa cushion. He cradles John's left hand, brushing the fingertips against his lips and cheek. It's all he can do to calm the twist in his gut seeing the pain creep into John's face, thinking of him young and vulnerable and alone.

"Thought I wanted to work for my uncle after school, but he refused to hire me. He forced me to go to university. Said patching up people would serve me better than patching up drywall. I suppose he wasn't wrong."

"Where is he now?"

"St. Mary's churchyard. Twelve years. Pancreatic cancer."

He watches John's face, sees an almost imperceptible burden settle there. "You were a source of great pride for him."

John looks down, a faint smile. "Now, how could you be sure of that?"

A steady gaze. "It is not even a question."

He gives Sherlock's hand a brief squeeze, then scoops up the remote and starts to click. Sherlock tucks his legs and rolls back toward the telly. John stops on a shot of a chocolate soufflé. He gestures with the device. "Here you go. You should be on this show. It's a competition."

A grunt. "Hardly."

"Oh, so you think you could win then?"

"Naturally."

John gives a low whistle. "Pretty confident, are we?" He traces patterns on the back of the long neck. "After that cake you made for my birthday, I think you've got a shot."

"Cake?" He flops back around to face John. "Are you referring to my crafting of a gingerbread torte with cinnamon butter glaze?"

"Yeah." A shrug. "It was all right." He schools his features to remain impassive.

" _All right_?" he echoes, appalled. "Pardon me, but it had the ideal balance of sugar grams to molasses, cinnamon to nutmeg. Precise amounts, blended at several timed intervals, for a superior result which—"

John cracks, rolling his head against the sofa back and chuckling. "Ok, ok, it was absolutely delicious. Too good. Greg tried to snatch an extra piece, and I nearly broke his wrist."

Sherlock's eyes virtually sparkle. "Really?"

He brushes his thumb along a cheekbone. "Yeah, 'course. You've quite a talent there." He skates over the full lips. "One of many."

A light shrug. "Baking is more _scientific_ than cooking. I find it more of a challenge. The measurements must be precise, the time and temperature exact, or the whole experiment fails."

"Maybe you should dump this consulting detective gig and open a pastry shop."

"Oh, please. Then what happens when Scotland Yard is yet again out of its depth?"

"Let them eat cake!"

A pained groan, teeth clicking. He pokes John's stomach. "Might I mention that it would make for a less than exciting blog."

"Not necessarily. I can think up some jazzy titles. How about 'The Six Napoleons: Custards Gone Wild'—that's damn catchy, eh?"

Sherlock laughs, a rare and deep resonance from his core. John beams, sweeping his hand through the soft hair and tugging the earlobe.

"Just think of how you could wreck your brother's diet."

The blue eyes dance. "Oh, Mycroft would be hiring a _live-in_ tailor. Never could resist the siren call of Chantilly cream or a jelly fill. He'd balloon to an immovable sloth…" His long fingertips strum together in conspiratorial fashion.

"Would give new meaning to the phrase 'governmental excesses'—the papers would be swarming."

"Don't tell me: 'Scales of Justice Strained'?"

"Ummm…'MOD is F-A-T?'"

"'Cracking Plan to Boost the Pound'?"

They both drop into a fit of giggles.

John sighs, head inclining against the sofa back. He feels warm and happy, as if he's just had a shot of old brandy on a frigid winter night. He flips channels a few more times, stopping on the evening news, then discards the remote entirely so both his hands can settle on Sherlock, in his hair and around his shoulder. He blinks hard and rolls his eyes to adjust their focus, but it is not long before they drift closed.

Sherlock snugs tight, pressing an ear against John's stomach and looping one arm securely around the waist. He's taken by the idea of listening to John from the inside. The music of stray gurgles and the beat of the steady heart overtake him. The blue-white glow of the television screen, the background hum of voices—really, the entire irrelevant world beyond the invisible cocoon that forms around them whenever they're together—dissolves. He lets himself be lulled by the soft swooshes of breathing until his own lungs match to the gradually expanding rhythm.


	23. Chapter 23

The tumultuous inner game is often key to the external interactions, an unspoken signature to the entire symphony; this is Sherlock's.

The hum is soft, filtering down the hallway on the wave of a brief crescendo. It draws up his head like a shush of summer breeze or the glorious scent of wood burning. His mind sees John hunched over the bed, blissfully folding shirts while the sun warms his back. Sherlock always marveled at John's pockets of precision, a hold-over from his military years, in which he demands tiny bits of absolute order in the otherwise chaotic rooms of their flat. There may be papers strewn randomly throughout the sitting room and tacked hastily to the walls; it is fine to have not an ounce of counter space for the conglomeration of glass tubes with suspicious liquids from four different experiments, as long as his clothing is folded and stored with geometric exactness.

He envisions the careful fingers flip and smooth the fabric, layering it in on itself in gradual steps. He thinks about those fingers—nimble and patient and tender—laying a bandage across a gash on his back, the delicate pads pressing out the edges of tape, their heat drawing out the pain and leaving only their soothing signature behind. He feels those fingers turn at his touch, to roll over and clutch his hand with a firmness and certainty that conveys all without a word. He runs those fingers over his chest, feels them flutter at his sides and work down the steps of his spine in an unhurried exploration that makes him tremble and sigh and want.

He is propelled from his chair, absently slamming the laptop closed, abandoning in seconds his intricate dissemination of the adhesive properties of bug residue as a corollary to travel speed and direction, which he'd spent months accumulating. He shrugs off his dressing gown and pads to the end of the hall. From the doorway he listens as the tune swells and ebbs in time with each breath.

Sherlock bumps the door, and it swings wide. He's hit with a blast of yellow sunlight. It hovers like an aura around John's form as he stacks his squares of fabric one upon the next, a satisfied grin quirking the corners of his mouth. His brick-red shirt is rolled at the sleeves, the top three buttons undone so it gaps as he bends. With no undershirt, Sherlock can see the curves of his muscles down his entire torso.

When John notices him leaning against the doorframe, his grin expands brilliantly, but his song doesn't falter. In one motion, John steps forward and takes hold of his wrist, pulling Sherlock close and slinging the other arm around his waist. Sherlock chuckles, letting himself be swept back and forth to John's dance, leaning into the twirl of it. His neck bends against John's head, cheek caressing the rumpled feathers of his hair.

It is morning, John's not showered, and he'd worn this same shirt yesterday, so everything about him is soft and earthy and comfortable. The scent of musk and sweat envelop him and pull him irrepressibly into John's orbit. He pushes a knee between John's legs so their steps overlap, demanding more access, a tighter seal. John's humming quiets slightly, and when Sherlock plants a kiss to his crown and temple and cheek, it stutters.

When John raises his head to Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock laps a path down the exposed tendon of his neck, it dies completely in a thick sigh.

The new refrain is of soft sighs and gasps as he responds to Sherlock's tongue, to the pull of his lips, the moan that emerges when Sherlock sinks his teeth into the pulse point that throbs heavier under his touch.

Sherlock sways them to the edge of the bed, and they bend as one to the mattress.

As a musician, Sherlock knows that every composition is a union of player and instrument; each challenges the other, lays open its heart to create the resonance of melody and harmony. When the balance is achieved, it is unforgettable. It is art.

As John's tongue licks into his mouth and finds his own; as John's warm hands, strong and sure, fall beneath the waist of Sherlock's pajama pants; as John's hips roll insistently against him, and he rises up to meet them, over and over, each time more lost to the delicious friction; as John's breath pushes his hair back from his forehead, and he whispers Sherlock's name with reverence; he knows that they have found that balance. It is their own song, and it is perfect.

He is convinced John's skin is an intoxicant. He cannot get enough of it. The smell of it, its sweet taste, its pliant spots where his hands skim and clench—all of it. He wants to feel John's skin across every inch of his own, to revel in it as it heats and puckers and sweats. The days and weeks he could spend experimenting on John's skin alone, appraising the variety of noises that tumble from his mouth when Sherlock touches him in an assortment of exotic points and applies just the right amount of pressure.

John murmurs into his ear, "I love you. Oh, God, I love you so much," and something in Sherlock shatters. He has no words to give back. He can only show him. Turning his head, he takes hold of John's upper lip, running his tongue beneath it and across his teeth. The soft lips seal with his own, jaw unhinging to kiss him deeper, harder. _More_. John's body, his mouth, is a shrine, and no words exist to make clear how he _needs_ him, his unfathomable devotion. His must prove it with every desperate swipe of his tongue and eager arch of his back.

So he buries his hands in Johns hair, holds him as tight as he can, and draws out every drop of pleasure he possibly can until he and John are both dazed and gasping, quivering and spent.

John lies draped across him, trying to recover his breath. Sherlock's hand plays with the tips of John's fingers, lacing them in and around his own. He never counted on this. He never thought it within the realm of probability that he'd find another person he could even stand to be around, let alone one to love completely and with an unimaginable intensity.

He never counted on John Watson.

But here he was.

A ridiculous smile is tacked to his face. At one time, he might have been mortified by such an absurd display of sentiment. But this feels right. He is keenly aware that there is no going back to what he had been before—Sherlock Holmes, The Stone Island of the Solitary Man. He'd been living half a life, and he hadn't even realized it.

And now, he does.

He tucks John's hand under his chin, melds John's body tighter to his, and knows at last what it is to be whole.


	24. Chapter 24

The music of the inner game, part 2; this is John's.

The first time John heard Sherlock play his violin was three days after he'd moved in. The notes filtered up the stairs to him as he lay in bed, clutching the edge of the mattress with both hands to keep from hyperventilating. The nightmare he had awakened from would not release him, and his ears yet rang with spatters of gunfire and screams of terror. The notes of Sherlock's song, mournful and quiet, seeped into John's consciousness and kept him in the present. He shut his eyes again, but that time it was to focus on the rich melodic line, panting through clenched teeth, thready pulse making him dizzy.

He'd stumbled down the stairs to the doorway of the sitting room, and Sherlock turned from the window to face him. His eyes bored into John's while he slid the bow in a long motion. He seemed to understand at once what was meant by John's pale face, sweat stained t-shirt, shivering arms. He didn't try to talk to John or offer pedantic "so sorry, everything will be okay" expressions that always made John want to punch out every tooth in whatever mouth was stupid enough to have uttered them. He _hated_ pity like that. But already Sherlock knew him better than anyone else ever had. Already he knew what John needed.

So he continued to play, walking over toward the mantle in an unspoken invitation, which John accepted. He staggered into the room and dropped into his chair by the fire. John kept his eyes riveted on Sherlock's. He huddled into the chair's corner, clamping his arms tight against his chest to still their motion, which only set his teeth chattering, but through it all, Sherlock's gaze was unrelenting. It grounded John, held him as sure as an embrace, as Sherlock's long arm and fingers glided through the undulations of endless notes, one song to the next, without interruption.

John awoke the next morning curled in the same spot, a thick blanket tucked around him. As he cracked his aching neck, he was amazed to find Sherlock across from him in his own seat, cheek slumped against the heel of the right hand which had tried to keep him upright, an apparent attempt to stave off the exhaustion that would not be denied. His violin still was clutched in his left.

John studied Sherlock's profile, the first time he'd seen it stilled by sleep, finally noticing the youthful features which Sherlock kept protected beneath his careful shield of stoicism, the incredibly potent allure of the statuesque face against the dark field of his plum button-down shirt.

John's heart expanded heavily. Their first days together had been a whirlwind of thrill and chase, plugging the superficial holes in John's spirit. But when it mattered most, when John's shattered interior was exposed, Sherlock had not let him fall. He hadn't asked stupid questions, hadn't demanded exposition or explanation. Instead, he had stayed with John, willing him out of the depths, staying even when it was clear that John was recovered. And, oh yeah, he was fucking gorgeous.

This was the exact moment John Watson knew, with a frightening degree of clarity, he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

John raises his head to peer over the top edge of the book in his hands, the one (if he were being completely honest) he'd actually abandoned ten minutes before when he'd caught in his peripheral vision the slow circling of Sherlock's hips as he played his latest composition. He'd paced in front of the sofa where John was stretched, ironing out the last four measures until they fell into a cadence that satisfied him. Now he has wandered back to his spot by the window to play it complete, and John has read page 47 six times before deciding it pointless.

Sherlock is silhouetted in the frame of the window. His elbows are pointed, head downturned, with the neck of the violin nearly aimed to the floor as he scoops through the low notes of the song's prelude. His hair falls over his face. Pale skin glows in the moonlight that angles through the upper panes.

John's book clatters to the floor.

He's off the sofa and to the window as the bow sounds the final sonorous tones. Sherlock spins around and looks at him with a startled smile, a question resting in his eyes. John eases the violin and bow from his grip. "That was beautiful." He places the instrument carefully on the desk, then takes Sherlock's face in both his hands. "You're beautiful."

John's kiss is fairly chaste—sweet and warm, as he intended—a simple reminder, an appreciation for the million ways Sherlock lights his every day. But as his hands slide back into Sherlock's soft hair, and as his tongue, of its own accord, teases its way into Sherlock's mouth, he starts to lose his tether of restraint.

When Sherlock makes a raw noise low in his throat, it snaps entirely.

It's too much, really, the heat that pours from John's skin when he enters Sherlock's orbit. He is burning now, and he has to share it. He shoves Sherlock against the window, bubbling, hands working under the loose shirt, clawing at every bit of Sherlock's skin. Everywhere he touches, he feels Sherlock melt and bend closer to him, more pliant with every touch.

His mouth settles at Sherlock's temple, kisses his face, his earlobe. "Do you know, Sherlock? Do you know what it is to burn? Because I do. Oh, God, every time you move, I do," he breathes into the shell of the ear, following it with his tongue. The hollow whimper that this evokes makes John shudder.

He spins Sherlock around and guides him backward into the room, both hands running up the smooth sides of his rib cage, down his back, and falling to the belt around his waist. By the time they reach the sofa, the belt drops to the floor.

Sherlock slides onto the sofa. His mouth is ajar, and he is staring intently at John with darkened eyes, waiting. Something strikes John then. It is reminiscent of the way Sherlock had looked at him the night of Lestrade's fake drugs bust, when the energy of the pursuit of the taxicab had freed John of his cane, accomplishing in ten minutes what nine months of therapy hadn't even dented. It was the moment that John learned about Sherlock's past with addiction, and Sherlock had stared into his eyes with a masochistic determination to see the very moment that John's zeal turned from admiration to repulsion, needing to witness what he assumed would be an inevitable rejection.

Anderson, Lestrade, Donovan—they all had sniped at him, mocking the man that they themselves had crawled to for help, and Sherlock's eyes had pleaded with John: _Go on, then. Do it. Hate me just like the rest of them._

John processed Lestrade reclining in Sherlock's chair and the others rifling through his cupboards—the smug satisfaction that they all shared as they dug through the flat on an errand they knew was false, solely to manipulate Sherlock and force him into the box they wanted him to fit inside so they could take him out and use him whenever or however it suited their needs.

John's emotions did shift that night, but not to disdain. John was pissed. Fury had surged through him. He wasn't particularly surprised by the revelation of a previous drug habit; John knew enough about stimulants to guess that someone who could apply three nicotine patches to his arm and feel only mild effects had to have some kind of relationship with stronger substances. Still, it didn't matter to him how Sherlock had stumbled in his previous life—everyone has ugly stains in their past that they'd like to rub out and pretend never existed. Truthfully, what embarrassing skeletons would come tumbling out of the closets of the merry employees of Scotland Yard if he were to go rattling the doors? John despised when people were used, when their weaknesses were exploited for someone else's gain, especially when the victim of the abuse is a person as singular and remarkable as the world's only consulting detective.

The outrage John felt in that moment transformed him, all right—it turned his growing appreciation for this man into a fierce protectiveness. At that point, John thought he could kill for Sherlock Holmes. And a few hours later, he did.

Now, Sherlock's penetrating gaze hungers for something entirely different, and John knows his face mirrors that same need. He sheds his jumper in one swipe and lowers himself down, balancing on his knees on either side of Sherlock's hips. He leans closer, and Sherlock's eyes flicker to his bullet wounds, one smooth and white, the other still an angry rosy splotch. His fingertips hover over each spot, scarcely ghosting the surface as if appraising a precious treasure, then land at the nape of John's neck. "I love you, John Watson." _More than I should, more than you must want, more than I want you to know_. His voice is so quiet he almost mouths the words, and John sees he is actually holding his breath.

It is still there, then—the little trace of fear that nags at the back of Sherlock's mind, that little demon that dogs him and makes him feel as if no one worth having would ever have him. That impulse, tacked there years before they ever crossed paths, is one that John vows to rip to shreds if it takes him to his last dying day.

The old ferocity rises up in him, fuels the searing kiss which leaves Sherlock's whole mouth red from the scrape of John's stubble; it governs the greedy fingers that tug away the frustrating layers of useless clothing and drives the punishing cant of his pelvis that makes Sherlock grip his thighs so tight there are circular impressions left in John's superheated skin. He wants there to be no part of Sherlock that does not feel his mark.

He pulls back, holding Sherlock's fascinated gaze as he draws into his mouth the fingers of Sherlock's right hand, savoring each sensitive pad until Sherlock's eyes blur and his head rolls back against the sofa cushion. John bends his back and uses his lips and tongue to trace a path across Sherlock's abdomen, until the darkened eyes finds his again, hypnotized. His curls are wild from John's hands, and he licks his swollen lips once.

 _Mine_.

John's thin veneer of determined control evaporates. He stretches up to reclaim that mouth, sealing their bodies, moving them together to the brink. They vibrate as one, a trembling mass of noise and electricity and fluid magic.

At last, John tucks into Sherlock's side, one arm slung over the pale chest that expands thickly, lungs still recovering their rhythm. He watches the fire that smolders in the fireplace, throwing an unearthly orange glow over the room. It is as if they are in their own atmosphere, one that belongs solely to them. It makes John wonder how he'd breathed all of those years prior to meeting that mysterious stranger in the lab at Bart's. So ingrained has Sherlock become within him that he scarcely even remembers what life was like before.

 _I'm not the John Watson you know._

He suddenly remembers sitting with Stamford in the park, feeling hollow, adrift, as if there were a chunk of him missing. That horrible emptiness had engulfed him since returning from the war, but really, it had always been there, like a nagging craving that he could never seem to satisfy.

And now he knows why.

He nestles his chin into the crux of Sherlock's neck, a soft smile settling onto his lips. It may be that all of his previous experiences have helped to make him who he is, but his life, as he forever wants to know it, properly began here at Baker Street.

**Author's Note: Please take a moment and tell me what you think thus far!**


	25. Chapter 25

On New Year's Eve, the last conversation of the year will be their most important.

"Oh, come here!"

"Mmmm?"

"Come here. Look!" An insistent hand flaps in the air.

A huff. "At what? It's just our street."

"But you've got to see this!"

Growled, "Do you realize that is the third time this month you've said that to me? The first was to watch an moron on a unicycle juggle kumquats, a vision I'd have gladly been spared, given that he was stark naked—save the polka-dotted beret on his head. The next was to point out the sun and remind me that we are indeed moving round it, because you _still_ seem to find that one amusing. I'm not willing to risk a third."

Silence, then softer, "Please, Sherlock."

That gets him. He hauls himself from his chair and shuffles over to stand next to John's right shoulder. "Well?"

"It's snowing!"

"Excellent observation. May I sit now?"

"But it's the first snowfall of the season." He looks up, catches the skeptical eye, and grins. "It just kind of makes everything feel a bit…magical, doesn't it?"

An eyebrow arches. "What is magical about frozen precipitation?"

He raises an emphatic hand to the pane. "Just look!"

Despite a noisy exhale and dramatic eye roll, he obeys.

Maybe it is the way the golden glow of city lights reflects from the impenetrable cloud deck overhead, making the entire world look like an illuminated jewel; maybe it is the way the street lamps create twinkling circles on the sidewalk from the crystals collected below them; maybe it is the reverent hush the white blanket brings to the clatter of traffic or the rush of fat flakes swirling drunkenly just beyond the glass.

Or maybe it is the memory that strikes him then, one from years prior of John trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue while pulling an indignant Sherlock through the park by his wrist, laughing so hard at the both of them that he couldn't keep his mouth still. It had been John at a completely unguarded moment, stripped of his soldier's bearing and crippling responsibilities—just silly and childlike, face turned to the sky with complete abandon. The sight had been enough to make Sherlock forget his soggy shoes and sizzling line-up of annoyed retorts; it was enough to steal his breath entirely.

It was enough, in fact, to punch Sherlock in the chest with exactly how much in love he already was with his new flatmate, a realization that had immediately sent waves of terror through him.

 _Old habits_.

He slides an arm around John's waist and glances at him out of the corner of one eye. "I suppose it is not without its charms."

John's head inclines automatically onto Sherlock's shoulder. "That's it! It's like it's a whole new world out there."

"Indeed."

"I always figure it's easy to feel the beauty in spring—everything smells good, looks colorful, warms up. But in winter, when leaves are down and it's dark more hours than it's light, the snow makes the change easier to take. Suddenly, the months of cold ahead are something to look forward to."

Sherlock turns toward him, wrapping both arms around John's middle. "So change can be a positive thing?"

A curious smile. "If you have what you need to weather it."

He stares steadily into John's eyes for several long moments. His mind wanders to the dark cubby of his sock drawer, to the small velvet box that's hidden there, the one anomaly protected amongst the hosiery's rigidly maintained index, waiting for the opportune moment. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but stays silent.

John's head tilts minutely. "You okay?"

"Of course."

"What are you thinking about?"

Blue eyes twinkle, pulse quickening. "Change."

A silent nod, eyes searching the unreadable pale face. "Am I going to like it?"

"I think so." Sherlock looks out at the snow. "After all, you're someone who finds the very best parts of every…situation. Even something as cold and bleak as winter."

John chuckles quietly, circling his head around at the golden bubble just outside the window. "You'd have to be blind not to see it. It's perfect." He turns back to Sherlock's face and smiles almost bashfully. "Does that make me an idiot?"

Sherlock is having difficulty keeping his thoughts straight and his fingers from trembling against John's body, so he links his fingers together at the small of the back, then shakes his head slowly, face serious. "No. It makes you a romantic."

Eyes crinkle with surprised laughter. "Ok, yeah, I'll accept that. But I think it's an asset. Helps make me a good storyteller."

Sherlock presses him closer. "Well, my esteemed blogger, this year's tale is nearly over—in forty-three minutes, to be precise. What do you suppose next year's chapters will have in store for us?" He realizes unabashedly that he's addressed virtually all of his remarks to John's mouth.

"Not sure," he whispers, "but I am positive of one thing." He licks his lips. "It will never be boring."

He kisses him then, sweet and warm, their own special mixture of succulence and awe.

 _His_ John. _His_ Sherlock.

It is starting to sound right in his head, a painfully gradual awareness of the signals that have moved up relentlessly from his heart. It, of course, has always known, but full comprehension has dawned at what feels a glacial pace.

Permanent. Official.

And in the most inexplicable and unbelievable way, it at last makes perfect, logical sense.

So against all odds, there's one more conversation to have that night, which Sherlock's been planning for weeks, which John's been considering for months. _God, for years_.

Now.

Finally, it's time.

**The game never ends; it just begins anew.**


End file.
